


Taking Care of You

by breezyyy



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breezyyy/pseuds/breezyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam gets sick. Blake decides to take care of him. Gen fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care of You

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the corny title. I wrote this as soon as I heard Adam had the flu and my brain went in a totally different direction than expected but oh well. I wanted to post it earlier but I didn't actually have an ao3 account and had to wait for an invitation, a confirmation e-mail, yada yada yada.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Like most things, it starts with something small.

In his case, it starts with a headache.

Adam doesn’t think much of it—headaches are second nature to him by now, with how much he works, how much he pushes himself, how much he stresses, so he tosses back a couple Tylenol and carries on with his day.

He gets to set and filming the show goes smoothly, the ache around his temples still throbbing and persistent but not enough to deter him from what needs to be done, and he thinks his team might actually have a shot at winning it this season. That alone is enough to lift his spirits and make him forget, just for a minute, that his headache isn’t actually getting any better and any momentary relief he feels is either from caffeine or sheer ignorance.

\--

Around lunchtime is when the dryness at the back of his throat starts.

He clears his throat and coughs, trying to get rid of it.

Pharrell notices, nice-guy that he is, and looks him up and down as they order their Starbucks. “You okay?”

Adam nods. “Just a tickle,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Let’s hope so,” Pharrell grins at him, “Lord knows we don’t need you getting sick on us.”

“I never get sick,” he replies with a smile because it’s true; he’s healthy, he keeps himself in good shape. Being sick isn’t something that happens to him often like it does with most people—but when he does get sick, when something is strong enough to bypass his system and _get him_ , he goes down hard.

That’s what worries him now; the headache, this tickling dryness in his throat. He knows what it means, what it’s alluding to, but he’s stubborn as hell and thinks _mind over matter_ and ignores it.

He does grab an orange juice on the way back to his chair, though.

Just to be safe.

\--

Loud music and a screaming audience do absolutely nothing to help with the pounding in his head.

The headache is full-blown now, sharp and throbbing if he so much as turns his head too fast; it’s like knives in his brain, claws behind his eyelids and a stake in his temple. It _hurts_ and he’s sunken down deep in his coach chair by the time the performances are halfway through.

His throat hurts too, now, and there’s a hint of an ache in his muscles.

He’s kind of annoyed at his body for betraying him like this. He can’t _afford_ to get sick; they’re in the middle of filming—he’s on tour with his band, for fuck’s sake.

Pharrell asks him if he’s okay again during a break and he nods a little too quickly, pulling his sweater tighter around him because it’s gotten chilly in here all of a sudden, and tells his friend that he’s just tired.

He curls up in his chair for the rest of the show, rattling off criticisms and praise for the contestants whenever Carson asks him to and blinking sleepily at the stage when he doesn’t.

He’s not sick.

\--

It takes all his energy to stand up and walk backstage once filming is over.

He’s shivering—it’s so fucking _cold_ —and his skin feels sensitive to the touch, his head feels like it’s been split wide open, his throat burns, and his nose has gotten a little stuffy.

Adam wraps his arms around himself and books it to his trailer. He’s been thinking about the couch in there all day, with its soft material and warm cushions. He thinks there might be a blanket and a pillow somewhere in there too that he can use.

A nap will do him good—it’ll be a while before everyone leaves (they all usually hang around set even after filming is done) so he knows he has a few hours before anyone will come looking for him.

His trailer is warm when he steps into it, much nicer than the studio outside, and he clumsily kicks off his shoes and snatches the pillow and blanket from the cupboard.

He practically collapses onto the couch, kicking and squirming until the blanket is tucked snug around him and the pillow is nestled beneath his head.

It’s still cold, even with his sweater and blanket and the heated room, so he curls up in a tight ball and shoves his face into his knees, sneaks his hands down between his thighs and waits for his body to get warm.

He’s asleep within minutes.

\--

He wakes up to a hand on his shoulder.

Adam squints up at the giant figure hovering above him.

“Get up, lazy pants.”

It’s Blake.

Adam sighs and drops his head back onto the pillow, hiding his face from view underneath the covers because he doesn’t feel like doing this, this bantering thing he and Blake do all the time. He doesn’t have the energy.

Blake shakes him by the shoulder, determined. “Come on, little guy, rise and shine. Everyone’s headin’ out, you’ll get locked up in here if you don’t move your ass.”

That doesn’t sound like a bad thing, really. He’s comfy here—and finally warm, so _blissfully_ warm, that he thinks he might not move from this spot for the rest of the week.

He grunts at Blake, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping the country singer will leave if he’s properly ignored.

No such luck.

“ _Adam_ ,” Blake sing-songs his name, poking him.

Adam jerks out of his reach, wriggling on the couch and moaning as loudly as he can in hopes that Blake will get the message and leave him the fuck alone.

He still feels crappy. He just wants to sleep.

Blake sighs as loudly as _he_ can—and wow, they really are a couple of children aren’t they?—and rips the blanket away from him.

“Hey!” Adam protests weakly, half-heartedly reaching for it because that was keeping him _warm_ , damn it, and he’d very much like to stay that way.

The chills are already back.

He blearily looks up and notices Blake staring at him oddly.

“Are you sick?” he asks, looking a little bewildered and maybe even guilty.

“I don’t get sick.”

His voice sounds like gravel—that’s a dead giveaway. Damn it.

“Uh-huh,” Blake doesn’t sound very convinced anyways. “What’s that cute blush on your cheeks, then?”

“You’re embarrassing me?”

Blake scoffs and eases himself down onto the side of the couch, sitting near Adam’s hip, “I’ve embarrassed you plenty, and I ain’t never seen you this flushed.”

Adam makes a face, because he’s not sick—he’s just… not his best.

He needs a few good hours of long rest and he’ll be back in top shape.

Blake seems to think otherwise; he reaches a big hand out and gently touches his forehead with it, and then his brow furrows, like he’s not exactly pleased with what he finds. “Jesus, you’re burning up,” he murmurs, frowning.

“So serious,” Adam teases because this is ridiculous and Blake shouldn’t be looking so solemn when there’s nothing wrong with him—he’s just a little heated from his nap, is all.

He’s _fine_.

“Is Behati at home?” Blake inquires, still frowning.

Adam makes another face, a sour one, because no, his lovely wife is far away in Paris working and he misses her a lot, would give anything to be able to go home to her and burrow into her shoulder until he feels better. He’s been sick around her a couple times and she’s the absolute best, always cuddling him and keeping him warm.

“She’s in France,” he answers around a pout.

If possible, Blake gets even more frown-y.

Then he seems to come to some sort of decision; it’s like a light bulb has clicked on over his head and all the frown lines disappear in an instant. He tosses Adam’s blanket aside. “Up you go,” he says and grabs him by the arm, hauling Adam into a seated position.

The room spins at the sudden movement and Adam swats his arm away, curling into himself. “Dude, don’t—don’t do that, you’re gonna make me hurl.”

“Not sick, huh?”

“I’m _not_.”

Blake rolls his eyes. “This macho, nothing-can-touch-me, I’m-invincible attitude is getting old, buddy. You’re sick as a dog, and you’re comin’ home with me.”

 _That_ gets his attention. Adam snaps his head up, wincing when the movement makes his head pound relentlessly, and gives Blake as much stink-eye as he can muster. “Dude, no.”

“Dude, yes,” Blake parrots, more gentle this time as he grabs him by the armpits and helps him to his feet. Adam sways, and maybe leans into the country singer a little too much, but glares at him all the same. “Look at you—you can barely stand up!” he grouses. “There’s no sense in you goin’ home to an empty house where no one can keep an eye on you, so come on. You can crash at my place until you’re better, or until Bee gets back, whatever.”

Adam frowns, thinking. “I can—I can call James, or—”

“Is there a reason you want him instead of me?”

Yes.

Maybe.

James is—James is nice with him, and always so gentle.

Blake is _Blake_ , and he might be a toasty walking fireplace but he’s still a giant hick five-year old and he’ll probably laugh at Adam if he throws up, or tease him relentlessly for being so sick and pitiful.

He doesn’t want that.

“I just don’t want to be a bother,” he says at length, and that’s kind of true too—he hates being a burden, it absolutely kills him when anyone but his mother or his wife sees him when he’s not his best.

Blake rests his hands on Adam’s shoulders. “You won’t be. Now come on—you can’t tell me you’d rather go back to your big cold empty house than come home with me where it’s warm and there’s a big cozy bed with your name on it waitin’ for you.”

That—that does sound nice.

Better than the couch, at least.

He blinks down at his socked feet, wondering how much he’ll regret this.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Blake beams at him, helps him put on his shoes and wraps an arm around him to help him walk out.

\--

There’s a chance—a very _slim_ chance—that he might, actually, be sick.

He’s shaking by the time they make it out to Blake’s truck (whether from the cold or his lack of energy, he has no clue, just knows that his bones are fucking _rattling_ and Blake’s grip on him is tight and steadfast) and Blake has to help him actually get _inside_ the damn thing, throwing an arm around his shoulders and hoisting him up into the passenger seat.

Blake reaches into the back and pulls out a denim jacket, handing it to him. “Here, put this on. It’ll keep you warm until I can get the truck heated up.”

Adam does, using it like a blanket and bringing it up all the way to his chin and tucking his legs beneath it. The jacket smells like Blake’s aftershave, so it must be his.

He’ll let himself be embarrassed about it later.

Right now, it’s keeping him warm.

He leans against the door as Blake starts the truck engine and pulls out of the Voice parking lot. He’s still unbearably cold, even when Blake cranks the heat up on high, and his head feels like someone is taking a jackhammer to it.

“You good over there?” Blake asks halfway down the road, startling Adam out of his light doze.

“Huh—what?”

“I said, are you feelin’ okay?”

Adam blinks, nodding. “Just peachy.”

“I’m sure. Do you need anything? I’m not sure what I got at the house—water, maybe, I don’t know.”

“Whatever you have is fine,” he says tiredly, already leaning back against the door with his eyes closed. He’s not worried about food right now—he just wants somewhere warm to lay down, to rest.

He dozes again after that, still not warm enough to be comfortable but sleepy enough that he doesn’t care.

At some point he might feel Blake reach over to adjust the jacket over his shoulders, but he’s too far gone to give it a second thought.

\--

He jerks awake for the second time that night to Blake’s hand shaking him.

“We’re here, buddy.”

Adam opens his eyes slowly, squinting at the house through the windshield. He feels even worse than he did before he went to sleep.

Blake opens the passenger door suddenly—and what the fuck, he didn’t even hear or see Blake get out of the truck—and Adam nearly topples out of it, yelping and flailing as he tries to steady himself. Blake holds him and unbuckles his seat belt for him, tugging him gently out of the truck and back onto solid ground.

“Easy now,” he mutters when Adam takes a misstep and nearly crashes to his knees.

Adam lets out a frustrated huff—his body isn’t cooperating with him like he wants it to; his legs feel like jelly and he’s so _weak_ he’s having to rely on Blake to help him fucking _stand_. How embarrassing.

“You think you can make it inside?” Blake asks worriedly, eyeing the distance between the truck and the house with uncertainty.

His knees are shaking, his stomach is in knots with how sick he feels—he’s not sure he can.

“I—I don’t know,” he says, ashamed.

Blake has never had to see him like this; it’s kind of humiliating.

He feels really, really hot—but also freezing, which is ridiculous.

Adam makes a surprised noise that sounds a little too much like a squeak when Blake lifts him into his arms without preamble. He freaks out for a second, not sure what’s happening or why he’s suddenly not on the ground anymore, but locks his legs around Blake’s waist and his arms around his neck tightly once he realizes what’s going on.

“ _Blake_ ,” he tries to shriek, but it comes out more like a croak—he sounds like a tiny pissed-off tree frog at best. “Put me down, I can walk!”

The cowboy ignores him, as Adam suspected he would, and no amount of squirming or threatening gets him down so in the end he just drops his cheek on Blake’s shoulder and hangs on for the ride.

Blake walks them down the driveway and onto the porch, unlocking the front door and closing it behind them when he steps across the threshold, locking it again with one hand while keeping Adam steady with the other.

He’s surprisingly gentle with him, keeping his steps easy and light so he doesn’t jostle Adam in his arms too much.

Adam clings to him, afraid of being dropped but also kind of enjoying this, how he doesn’t have to move or walk or do anything but he’s still _going places_. Blake is like his own personal… horse, or something.

He’s really not good with analogies right now.

His brain might be melting.

“Don’t get used to this,” Blake says out of the blue, reading his mind, “I ain’t gonna start carrying you around everywhere. This is just a special occasion, since you’re so cute and helpless right now.”

Adam hums an agreement, disappointed that Blake won’t be carrying him to the grocery store anytime soon but grateful that at least he’s getting special treatment tonight when he needs it most—and Blake doesn’t even seem to be giving him too much shit for it either, which is fantastic.

He even called him cute.

The house is warm, so fucking warm, and Adam practically melts against Blake as the heat seeps into his bones and relaxes him, making him drowsy.

He still feels like a pile of shit but at least he’s somewhere nice now, somewhere safe, where he can curl up and sleep and be left alone to lick his wounds in private.

Blake carries him up the stairs with zero effort (he’s not huffing and puffing by the time they make it to the top—Adam is amazed, and a little impressed) and deposits him on a giant bed in one of the guest rooms.

Adam sprawls out on it immediately, languid and sleepy, sinking into the mattress.

He kicks his feet when he feels Blake tugging at his shoes, helping his friend get them off as much as he can.

“Crawl on up there, rock star,” Blake says, manhandling him to the head of the bed. Adam slides under the blankets gratefully, sweater and jeans and all, burrowing down until only his hair pokes out of the top. So fucking warm. “You need another pillow? More blankets?”

Adam grunts out a negative, hell-bent on going to sleep _right now_ and he’s already halfway there by the time Blake leaves the room and comes back with a couple more Tylenol and a glass of water.

He won’t stop pestering until Adam gets back up and swallows the pills and drains at least half the cup.

“I’ll check on you in a couple hours,” Blake says as he flicks off the lights.

“Mmm’kay,” Adam mumbles, already snuggled back deep under his blankets. He’s still chilly but the cotton sheet and thick comforter are doing a swell job at warming him up.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all, he thinks as he dozes lightly.

\--

He wakes up, sometime later, frozen to the bone.

The blankets are still nestled around him and he’s still wearing his sweater—by all sense and logic, he should be sweating, but he’s not. He feels like someone’s poured a bucket of ice in his veins. His entire body is quivering and doesn’t stop no matter how much he tries to make it otherwise; his fingers tremble as he pulls the blankets tighter around him.

So fucking _cold_.

The overhead light suddenly turns on.

“Adam?”

_Oh thank God._

He pokes his head out from under the blankets. Blake is standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, peering in at him. “You good in here?”

Adam shakes his head—fuck being macho, he needs help.

Blake is at his side in two seconds, crossing the room in three strides. “What is it? What do you need?”

“More blankets,” he answers, his voice tiny and weak. “M’cold.”

Blake feels his forehead again, frowning. “You’re still on fire. Shit—I should probably check your temperature, huh? I’ll see if I have a thermometer somewhere, hold on.”

“ _Blankets_ ,” Adam repeats firmly.

“Oh—right, hold on a sec.”

Blake slips out of the room. Distantly, Adam hears a closet door being opened and closed, some rustling sounds, and then Blake returns a moment later carrying three more thick blankets. He might as well be Santa Claus with an armful of presents, Adam is so happy.

Blake unfolds them and spreads them out over top of his body, tucking them in around the edges.

Adam scoots down further under his mountain of blankets, still not at all warm.

“I’m gonna find a thermometer and make you some hot tea. That sound good?”

He nods as much as he can. He’s a little dizzy, now, on top of everything else, and his head still feels like it’s being sliced in half with a hacksaw.

He listens to the muffled sounds of Blake leaving the room and ambling downstairs, bustling around in the kitchen and rummaging through cabinets. 

Blake is being so nice—he doesn’t understand it, but he’s certainly happy about it. He doesn’t think he’d have the energy to deal with any of his teasing comments or stupid jokes tonight.

He must look really pitiful for Blake to be acting like this, so fucking nice and attentive.

Adam shuts his eyes for a while longer and opens them again when his knees bump against something.

Blake is sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, studying him.

How much time has passed? He has no idea.

“Sit up for a second,” Blake says. Adam moans in protest but Blake is already hauling him up, propping him against the headboard. “Open your mouth.”

Adam obeys and something sharp jabs under his tongue. He winces and coughs, but closes his mouth around the thermometer and sags heavily as he waits for the tiny device to do its thing.

It beeps a moment later and Blake removes it, swearing. “Hundred and two. You never do things simple, do you?”

Adam huffs and sinks back into bed, keeping the upper half of his body leaned up against his pillows because he spies a big mug of hot tea on the nightstand and suspects Blake wants him to drink it.

He does—and his big hands wrap around his own to help him keep the mug steady as he takes a few sips. Blake’s hands are so warm, Adam shivers at the sensation, feeling his own fingers beginning to heat up.

The hot liquid feels fucking amazing on his throat; it’s chamomile, he thinks, and he’s drowsy and listless by the time he finishes the whole thing.

Blake helps him crawl back under the blankets and tucks them up around his chin.

Adam wants to say something, maybe thank his friend for being so nice with him when he could have easily passed him off to James or someone, or teased him about all this at the very least, but everything goes dark and fuzzy the moment he closes his eyes.

He falls asleep, still shivering, with Blake’s giant hand resting on his head, warm fingers cupped over his ear.

\--

He wakes up _boiling_.

It’s too much—too hot, too many blankets, _too suffocating_ —and he thrashes wildly, trying to get rid of the ridiculous number of blankets covering him and making his body flash erratically with waves of heat.

God, he’s sweating.

“Whoa—whoa, easy now,” Blake’s voice, gentle and soft.

Adam kicks the blankets off and turns his head. Blake is sitting on the other side of the bed, phone in hand. He looks like he’s been there a while and at some point he must have changed into his pajamas, because he’s only wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt with some bar logo on it.

“Too warm?” Blake asks and Adam nods, sitting up dizzily and trying to pull his sweater off with clumsy fingers.

Blake helps him, tugging the material up over his head and tossing it aside on the floor. Adam follows through with the remainder of his clothes, toeing off his socks and squirming out of his undershirt. Blake helps him again with his jeans after Adam fails one too many times to unbuckle his belt.

“Don’t get fresh,” Adam jokes weakly and Blake snorts, helping him tug his pants down around his thighs. He gets his jeans off at last, and with a kick of his leg, they go flying across the room.

He’s only in his underwear now and for the life of him he doesn’t even care. Modesty be damned.

“Better?”

Adam nods and flops over on his stomach, closing his eyes. He’s still too hot but it’s a little better now.

He has no idea how long he’s slept but he still feels like absolute shit. The pills and water and tea haven’t seemed to really do anything for him, or at least it feels that way, and he feels frustrated, miserable tears press at his eyelids.

He lets out a low whine and okay, yeah, he totally sounds pathetic but it makes him feel better.

Big, warm fingers touch his head, rubbing his scalp softly and mussing his hair. He opens his eyes into slits and sees Blake still sitting next to him, scrolling through his phone with one hand and using the other to card his fingers through Adam’s hair.

It feels so damn good, he’s not about to complain or give him shit for it. Adam sighs contentedly instead, nuzzling closer to the giant warm hand and letting it lull him back to sleep.

* * *

Blake watches the younger man sleep next to him, his phone pressed tight against his ear.

“He’s not doing so good,” he tells Behati on the other end quietly. He’d called her after Adam fell asleep again, thinking she’d want to know what was going on. “If his fever gets any higher, he outta be in a hospital.”

“Poor baby,” Behati fusses, sounding distraught. “Has he eaten anything?”

“Not since he’s been with me, no. I don’t know if he ate anything before that. I found him sleeping in his trailer, though, so I kinda doubt it.”

“He likes soup,” she informs him. “Chicken noodle if you have some, with crackers and juice. If his throat hurts he also likes popsicles, or Italian ice. He’s fussy about the flavors though so ask him what kind he wants first—oh, and he _loves_ frozen strawberries.”

Blake takes note of it all, doubting he has any of this stuff in his kitchen—soup, maybe, but even that’s kind of a long shot. He may have to make a grocery run while Adam sleeps.

“You think you’ll be okay watching him until I get back?” she asks worriedly. “My plane lands around noon tomorrow. You can call James or Jesse if it gets too bad—they’ll know what to do, they’ve dealt with a sick Adam more than either of us combined.”

“I think I’m good,” he says truthfully, “but yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Adam’s tougher than he looks,” Behati says around a chuckle. “I’m sure he can beat this.”

“Yeah, he’s been fighting it pretty hard. I’ll stick with him tonight, make sure he’s okay.”

“Thank you, Blake,” she says gratefully. “I’m sorry if it’s a hassle, but—”

“It’s no hassle,” he interrupts, because it’s really not. It’s the least he can do and he tells her as much, promising to call again if it gets any worse and that he’ll _‘take good care of her man’_.

He hangs up after a couple more minutes of small talk, letting her get back to work.

He reaches over and rubs Adam’s temple with his thumb, looking down at him, trying to feel more amused about this whole situation rather than worried.

He’s never seen his friend been taken down so severely—he’s seen him with a cold or allergies, sure, but this is… this is something different. Something new, and it’s a little scary for him to think about.

Adam is so still right now; Blake has _never_ seen him this motionless, this quiet.

It’s pretty damn cliché but Adam really does look younger when he’s like this, more innocent, with his reddened cheeks and lax features, his mouth parted slightly and his hair in complete disarray, sticking to his forehead with sweat and poking up in every other direction in the back, giving him the appearance of a toddler.

Blake smiles. Adam looks so cute, his little buddy.

He cares about him a lot, he realizes—and not for the first time, but maybe now it hits him a little harder, makes his chest tighten with a little more emotion when he sees his friend so sick like this.

It makes him realize that Adam’s just as human as everyone else, and anything could happen.

He kind of hates it.

\--

Around seven Blake gets up and tries to make the most of what’s left of the evening.

He picks up the clothes Adam shirked off and folds them, putting them in a pile at the foot of the bed, and then takes his empty tea mug back to the kitchen to rinse.

He searches through his fridge and pantry while he’s down there, looking for frozen fruit or popsicles or anything even remotely close to what Behati had mentioned Adam liked eating while he was sick. All he finds are crackers and ginger ale; no fruity ice treats or juices or soups.

He eyes the ice dispenser in his fridge dubiously, wondering if ice chips would do the trick for him. He really doesn’t want to leave Adam alone to go to the store. Anything could happen while he’s out, and he just doesn’t want to risk it.

In the end, he pulls out his phone and shoots James a quick text, asking if he can deliver some groceries for him.

 _‘u sick?’_ is James’ quick reply.

 _‘Adam is’_ , he types back, knowing those two words alone will spur the guitarist into action. _‘Don’t wanna leave him alone but I have nothing for him to eat here.’_

_‘I know what he likes. Be there soon’._

Blake puts his phone away after thanking him and goes back upstairs, grateful that Adam has friends who care about him enough to drop everything and make spontaneous trips to the grocery store for him.

The rock star is sprawled out diagonal on the bed when Blake enters the room, his breathing deep and even with sleep. He’s pulled some of the blankets back over top of him, so he must have gotten cold again.

Blake perches on the corner of the bed, not willing to rearrange his friend and risk waking him, and messes around on his phone for the next hour while he waits for James to show up, casting wary glances over at a very motionless Adam and trying not to feel too worried about it.

\--

The guitarist does show up, but it’s two hours later than expected.

Adam is still sleeping so Blake greets him quietly at the door, letting him inside and taking one of the bags of groceries James is carrying.

“I only needed a few things,” Blake says, peering into one of them and noticing a crap-load of stuff he didn’t even ask for: orange juice, apple juice, cranberry juice, three different types of crackers, frozen strawberries, Italian ice, popsicles, yogurt, red Jell-O, peppermint tea, lemon tea, chicken noodle soup, pretzels.

James looks sheepish, already taking the groceries out and putting them away. “He likes different stuff depending on how he feels, so… I kind of just got everything. Sorry.”

Blake shrugs. “Hey, whatever makes him feel better.”

“What’s he got, anyway?” James asks.

“Flu, I think. His fever is pretty bad, he’s runnin’ hot and cold all the time, feels like shit, looks like shit. I gave him some water and Tylenol earlier, and then some tea.”

James nods, approving. “Good. He doesn’t get sick often but when he does, it’s pretty bad.” He puts the remainder of the groceries away and then turns to him, an eyebrow raised. “So why are you the one taking care of him?”

Blake frowns. “Should I not be?”

Shrugging, James leans against the counter. “Just seems like you would’ve called someone rather than bring him home with you like this. He’s quite a handful when he’s sick.”

That Adam’s a handful doesn’t faze him, not in the way James means it to, at least. Truthfully, he’s not sure why he decided to bring Adam home with him. It just seemed like something he should do, especially since Behati wouldn’t have been home to look out for him—and knowing Adam, the little jerk probably would have passed out on the floor or something, wouldn’t have taken good care of himself.

Plus, Adam had looked so small and helpless he’s not sure he could have said no even if he wanted to.

“I don’t mind,” he says after a moment. “Bee’s out of town and I figure he shouldn’t be alone when he’s like this. It’s the least I can do.”

“If you say so, man,” James smiles, pushing away from the counter and back towards the front door. “You sure you don’t need any help with him? I can stay, if you want.”

“Nah,” Blake shakes his head. He’s managed so far, he can take it from here. “Thanks but I think I got it.”

“Okay, well, call me if he gets worse or, you know, if he needs something else to eat besides what I bought.”

“Will do.”

James leaves, then, and it’s almost as if Adam were waiting for him to go, because the second the door closes Blake hears a loud _thud_ coming from upstairs followed by a muffled, panicked shriek.

He takes the stairs two at a time, bounding down the hallway and bursting into Adam’s room.

Adam is on the floor, sheets tangled around his legs, his chest heaving.

He jumps a mile when Blake runs in, scuffling backwards on the floor until he’s pressed against the nightstand. He’s covered in sweat and shaking, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

Blake’s stomach clenches.

“Easy, buddy,” he says, bending down and reaching for him. “It’s just me.”

Adam looks at him wildly, flinching away. “I’m—I don’t—what?”

“It’s me,” he tries again. “Calm down, bud. You’re shaking.”

Adam doesn’t hear him, shaking his head back and forth as he makes little hitched noises. He pushes at Blake’s chest, trying to get away, but his legs are still tangled in the sheets and he’s pressed back against the nightstand—there’s nowhere for him to go, and when he realizes that, he panics.

“G-Get away—I-I can’t—” he pants, white-faced, his voice small and breathy. “Get it away—please, just—”

Comprehension dawns on Blake suddenly.

Adam is hallucinating. He’s seeing something that’s scaring him.

His fever must have gotten worse while he was downstairs with James.

Blake’s heart twists in sympathy and he reaches for him again, gentler this time.

“Adam, buddy,” he says, his own voice shaky and breathless because this is— _fuck_ , he’s never seen Adam like this before, never wants to again. “Adam, look at me. Please.”

The front man squeezes his eyes shut, gasping.

“ _Adam!_ ” he barks.

Adam flinches but his eyes fly open, scared and wet, but alert.

Blake brushes his sweaty hair back with a hand, trying to comfort the little guy as much as he can. “You’re okay, buddy. You’re just seein’ things, none of it is real.”

Adam freezes, looking at him. “It—it’s not?”

“No, bud. It’s just your head playin’ tricks on you.” Blake grips both sides of his face, brushing his thumbs across wet cheekbones. Adam reaches up hesitantly and covers his hands with his own, confusion pinching his features.

“Are… are you sure?” Adam asks pitifully after a moment, on the verge of crying but still looking up at Blake like he has all the answers in the world, like he can make it all better.

“I’m positive. Nothing’s gonna get you.”

Adam shrinks back, cowering and staring at something over Blake’s shoulder, frightened by some unseen thing. “But… but what if it does?”

“It won’t—not while I’m around, I promise.”

The front man takes some time to consider that, chewing his lower lip as his eyes dart around the room, as if he were tracking something. Then he shuts his eyes, whimpers, and lurches forward, tucking his head under Blake’s chin. He makes a desperate little sound that Blake never wants to hear again in his life and clings to him, trembling like a leaf, his face hidden from view as he gasps and coughs, practically sobbing into his chest.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Blake shushes him desperately, pressing frantic kisses to the side of his face and holding him tight, noting with unease how unnaturally warm his skin felt. “Take deep breaths for me.”

He inhales deeply to show him how, feeling Adam mimic him a second later and Blake repeats it for as long as it takes to calm him down, to get him settled and a little less panicky.

Blake pulls back after a few minutes and looks at his friend worriedly. Poor guy still looks terrified but at least he’s breathing normally now, and his face has some color in it again. He glances over at the bed and sees the sheets are soaked with sweat—he’ll have to change them, which means leaving Adam alone for a few minutes, which is the last thing he wants to do.

He really wishes he had taken James up on his offer to stay.

He tries pulling away but Adam whines, grabbing the front of his shirt and keeping him close.

“I gotta change your sheets so we can get you back into bed,” he explains gently, trying to pry Adam’s fingers loose.

Adam shakes his head wildly, desperate for him to stay. “Please—” is all he can get out before he’s gasping again, little drops falling from his eyes and wetting his cheeks.

Blake’s heart breaks but he forces Adam to let go of him, taking his hands and setting them in his lap.

He bites his lip and then pulls out his phone. This might not work, it’s probably stupid to even try, but Adam is so delirious and confused that he thinks it’s worth a shot. He puts the phone in Adam’s hands. “Hold onto this, okay?” he says gently. “It’ll keep you safe.”

Adam stares at the phone like it’s magic. He looks back up at Blake after a second, wide-eyed and curious.

“Keep your eyes on it, don’t look away.”

Adam nods hurriedly and stares back down at the phone.

Blake rushes out of the room as fast as he can and snatches new sheets for the bed, filling up a glass of water and grabbing more Tylenol while he’s in the bathroom, and then hurries back. He strips the bed and replaces the sweaty sheets with fresh ones, adjusting the blankets and pillows so that they’re back in some semblance of order.

Adam is still sitting on the floor, concentrating on the phone in his hands.

Blake walks back around to kneel in front of him. “You can look away now.” Adam does, blinking up at him owlishly. “I’m gonna give you some more medicine, okay? And then we’re gonna take your temperature again.”

Adam nods, quiet, still holding the phone with a white-knuckled grip.

Luckily, the front man puts up no resistance to taking the pills and downing the glass of water—he even seems a little grateful for it, Blake thinks.

His temperature is up a few degrees—103.3—which worries him, makes his heart stop for a second, but he resolves not to call a doctor until he waits and sees if he can get it down on his own or not.

Instead, for now, he gets up and goes to the bathroom, returning with two cold wet cloths. The first one he uses to wipe Adam down, wipe the sweat still clinging to his skin, and cool him off with it, too, hopefully.

He sets the other cloth aside for now and rummages through the guest room closet, pulling out an old t-shirt of his and some sweatpants that haven’t fit him in ages. Adam is pliant and limp like a doll as Blake puts them on him, putting his arms and legs through the holes—they’re too big for him, _way_ too big, but he looks comfortable in them and it’s better than nothing.

He gets Adam back into bed after that; the little guy is shaking so badly (out of fear or sickness, he has no idea) that his teeth chatter and miserable, frightened tears are still threatening to spill out.

He’s still holding Blake’s phone, clutching it protectively to his chest, as he lays back down and curls back up under the mound of blankets.

Blake takes the second wet cloth and puts it over his forehead, smiling when Adam sighs at its coolness.

“That feel good?” he asks, sitting down beside him on the mattress.

Adam nods—he doesn’t really _look_ any better, but he’s calm now, quiet and compliant, so that’s something.

Blake runs his fingers through Adam’s hair again, knowing by now it’s the quickest way to get him nice and sleepy. He marvels at its softness, the strands like silk between his fingers.

Adam lets out a little noise a few minutes later—a happy one, this time—and his head falls to the side as sleep finally claims him. Blake adjusts the wet cloth on his head, letting it sit there for a little while longer, and then scoots over to the other side of the bed.

He feels exhausted. He hasn’t really done anything strenuous, but he’s been worrying himself sick all evening and Adam just gave him the scare of a lifetime and that just as easily makes him feel like he’s run a marathon.

He slips under the covers, thinking it’s probably better for him to stay here anyways in case Adam has another hallucination, or if his fever worsens, or even if he just wakes up and needs to pee or something.

He settles down on the bed with a sigh, looking over and smiling when Adam unconsciously sidles up closer to him, snuggling and sleeping soundly, Blake’s phone still loosely clenched in his fingers.

Blake puts his arm around the little guy, holding him to his chest, and falls asleep fast.

\--

Sunlight streams through the window around eight the next morning and he stretches languidly, his brain still foggy with sleep. He feels well-rested, though. Probably the best sleep he’s had in months.

It takes him a moment to realize what’s missing— _Adam_.

He panics, sitting up and looking around.

His friend had been glued to him all night, his head pillowed on Blake’s chest; he never moved, not even an inch, not even when it started feeling like they were both sitting inside an oven.

Now, there’s nothing.

The other side of the bed is empty. His phone lay forgotten in the spot where Adam had been hours before.

Blake curses, shooting out of bed and his mind whirring with possibilities of what could have happened as he races downstairs—Adam could have deliriously stumbled out of the room and tripped and hurt himself, could have gotten sick and thrown up in the bathroom, might’ve been too weak to make it back to the bedroom.

He gets down to the kitchen and skids to a stop, heart hammering.

Adam is sitting at the island on one of the stools, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, hair unimaginably messy, swinging his legs, and sucking on some frozen strawberries.

When he notices Blake, he smiles at him weakly. “I think I’m dying.”

Blake sighs, relief washing over him now that he knows Adam didn’t fall and break his neck or something, and joins him at the island. “Drama queen.” He plucks a strawberry from his bowl, munching on it. “You feelin’ any better?”

Obviously, he is; not only does he look healthier, he’s actually stringing together entire sentences, which is a huge improvement from last night.

Adam sniffles. “Better than before, yeah.”

Blake reaches over and feels his forehead, which is remarkably cooler than it had been. The extra rest and cold compress must have helped a little. “Good,” he commends, even more relieved. “I think the worst of it is over. You might wanna get to a doctor, though, let them check you out.”

Adam nods, licking strawberry juice from his fingers.

“If I get a shower started, you think you can take one without falling over?” Blake asks him. He figures the hot water will do him good, help ease some of the lingering aches he outta be feeling. “Or a bath, if you want.”

“Shower’s good,” Adam replies, and lets Blake help him down from the bar stool and guide him upstairs.

Blake gets the water running in the bathroom while Adam wanders back into the bedroom.

He emerges a moment later with Blake’s phone in his hands, not a word of explanation for it; he just sets it on the sink and starts taking off his clothes.

“I’ll get you some fresh pajamas to put on when you’re done,” Blake says, turning his back before Adam gets completely naked right in front of him. “I’ll be right outside the whole time if you need anything.”

“Sure, dad.”

His shower is quick—no more than ten minutes—and he exits the bathroom in nothing but a towel, his hair slicked back and both looking fresh and smelling clean. He’s holding the phone in one of his hands.

Blake gives him some clothes and steers him back to the bedroom, turning his back once more to give Adam some privacy as he puts them on. When he turns back around, Adam looks completely drowned in the clothes, like he’s swimming in them. The sleeves cover his hands and the bottom of the pants pool around his feet.

And he’s still holding the damn phone.

“Back to bed?” Blake inquires and Adam nods, crawling under the covers the moment Blake peels them back for him to climb in. “Need anything?”

“Kinda hungry, still,” Adam says, yawning, and then looks at him suddenly. “I saw soup down there—did James bring that? He always gets that brand when I’m sick.”

“I had him bring over a few things to make it easier on you,” Blake explains. “I didn’t really have anything for you to eat so he went out and brought back the whole damn store.”

Adam smiles fondly, holding the phone close to his chest. “He’s my nursemaid.”

“Right,” Blake chuckles, reaching out to smooth back some pieces of wet hair that had fallen in Adam’s eyes. “I’ll go make you some soup, then.”

“Mmm,” Adam hums contentedly, closing his eyes.

“Oh, by the way,” Blake says just before he leaves the room, turning back, “your wife will be here around noon.”

Adam’s eyes snap open and he raises his head, intrigued. “Behati?”

“Unless you have some other wife I don’t know about.”

His head falls back onto the pillow, a dopey smile on his face. “Wife,” he states proudly.

Blake laughs softly—Adam must still be out of it, a little. “Yeah. I’ll be back in a few, rock star. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Staying right here.”

“Good boy.”

\--

Adam eats all of his soup, to Blake’s delight, and even manages a few crackers and half a bottle of juice.

He babbles on about anything and everything—from the weather to how much he misses his dogs, to his band, to his favorite color, to how much he _loves_ The Beatles.

Blake determines after their fourth conversation about whether shoe size equals dick length that, yes, Adam is still pretty fucking out of it—but at least he’s not scared and crying like he had been the night before. Thank God.

Around ten he makes him swallow a couple more Tylenol and bundles him in more blankets because he’s starting to shiver again, and reaches for the remote on the bedside table.

“Wanna watch a movie, take your mind off things?” he asks, curled up next to him on the bed, nudging him with an elbow. Adam nods and slides closer to him, leaning his head on Blake’s shoulder.

He clicks as fast as he can through all the horror movies airing on cable right now (they caught a glimpse of some grisly scene with a girl covered in blood and Adam had immediately hidden his face in Blake’s chest, flinching) because he doesn’t want Adam to have any nightmares or more hallucinations and finds a nice, simple movie about a robot child and a talking teddy bear that keeps them both happy and focused for the time being.

Adam is asleep within twenty minutes, snoring congestedly on Blake’s chest.

\--

Behati shows up around noon, just as she promised.

She has her own key to the place so she lets herself in. Blake hears her feet climbing the steps and smiles at her when she enters the bedroom—she looks beautiful despite having been on a plane for so many hours, and her gaze immediately goes to Adam snoozing in Blake’s lap.

“Aww,” she giggles quietly, melting, and sitting on the edge of the bed. “My poor baby.”

“He’s dead to the world,” Blake tells her, jostling Adam on purpose and grinning when the rock star doesn’t even twitch. “He’s been out for a couple hours, now. I’ve never seen him so still.”

Behati rakes her hand through Adam’s mostly-dry hair, smiling. “He’s like a pitiful little puppy when he’s like this.”

“Slobber and all,” Blake agrees, eyeing the drool patch on his shirt.

She laughs and then quiets down when Adam snuffles in his sleep. “Thank you so much for taking care of him,” she says seriously, “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal. He slept for most of it.”

“How bad did it get?”

His gut twists at the memory of the night before. He absolutely hated seeing Adam like that, but in all honesty, it could have been a lot worse. “Not too bad,” he admits, lying just a little to spare her feelings, idly rubbing his hand up and down Adam’s back. “We had a little scare but it was easily solved.”

His phone is still in Adam’s right hand. He tried taking it back earlier but Adam just held it tighter in his sleep.

“Good,” Behati sighs in relief, relaxing. She scoots further onto the bed and settles on the other side of Adam, who squirms and turns his head towards her, out like a light but still somehow sensing that she’s nearby. “So what are we watching?”

The three of them sit like that for the rest of the movie, Adam dozing between them.

\--

Pharrell calls an hour later and wakes Adam up from his sleep, since the phone is still in his hand.

Blake plucks it from his grasp and answers it as Adam stirs. Behati had stepped out for a minute to use the restroom and Blake’s interested to see Adam’s reaction to her being here.

 _“Hey, man,”_ Pharrell is saying, all casual-like. _“Sorry for the unexpected call but I just wanted to see how Adam is doing, see if he’s feeling better.”_

Blake looks at the little guy in question, who’s staring blearily at the ceiling. “You knew he was sick?”

 _“I suspected it,”_ Pharrell laughs. _“You know him, he wouldn’t admit it but I could tell something was off, and then I saw you loading him into your truck so I figured you were gonna look out for him.”_

“Right, well, he’s doing better. It got kinda bad last night but he seems okay now.” He wants to mention Behati’s here too but he doesn’t want to let Adam know that just yet, wants to let him see her for himself.

_“Well, good. Tell him hi for me, okay? I gotta get going but I’ll check in later.”_

He hangs up, and then shoots James a quick text before Adam takes his phone again, letting the guitarist know that their mutual friend is doing much better. He sends Miranda one, too, explaining to her quickly what happened and that he’ll call her later with the juicy details.

As expected, Adam does snatch the phone back from him when he’s done, sneaking it up his sleeve and hiding it there, rolling over onto his side.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Blake teases. “You still dying on me?”

Adam yawns and nods. “What time is it?”

“Around one-ish.”

They both hear the toilet flush down the hallway. Adam raises his head, curious. Blake smirks.

Behati walks in and positively beams when she sees Adam awake. “Hey, babe!”

Adam practically _lights up_ , his face morphing into a giant smile as he reaches his arms out towards her invitingly. She falls into him with a laugh, kissing his nose and wrapping her arms around him.

“I missed you,” Adam croaks, giddy and happy, nuzzling into her like she’s the best pillow in the world.

Blake gets up and leaves them alone for a bit, going downstairs to clean up the kitchen and grab Adam a few more snacks. He assumes Behati will want to take him home soon and wonders if he should send all this sick-food back with them but when he goes back upstairs, the couple are nestled together under the blankets like they don’t plan on moving for a while.

Adam’s asleep again. That might be why.

Blake sets the yogurt and bag of pretzels on the nightstand, smiling fondly at the picture they make.

“I don’t want to wake him,” Behati admits, sheepish. “I’ll take him home as soon as he gets up, I promise.”

“No rush, not unless you all are eager to head out,” Blake says, scratching the back of his head. “I mean—there’s plenty of space here, lots of room. You can stay, if—if you want.”

Behati smiles up at him, adjusting the blankets around her husband. She pats the space on the other side of Adam, inviting him to join them both on the bed again. “We can have a movie day while he gets better,” she says brightly.

He laughs, snagging the bag of pretzels for himself and giving Behati the cup of yogurt as he gets comfortable on the bed. Adam fits between them easily, his legs tangled with Blake’s and his head pillowed on Bee’s stomach.

They choose another sci-fi movie—something with aliens this time—and settle in for the day.

It’s a good day.

\--

Adam slowly opens his eyes, feeling as though he’s been shot to death and beaten and then resurrected.

He’s comfortable, though—that’s the first thing he notices.

The second thing he notices is the ache in his muscles is practically gone, his head doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore, and his throat is suspiciously no longer feeling like sandpaper.

The _third_ thing he notices is, well—there are two people in bed with him.

He can feel his legs sprawled out over top of someone else’s on one side and his head being cushioned by someone else on the other but he distinctly remembers only falling asleep with one person, and that was Blake.

Concerned, he lifts his head.

His wife smiles down at him, sleepy-eyed and gorgeous.

Something warms up in his chest at the sight of her, his stomach doing that flippy thing it likes doing whenever he sees her, and he’s certain his heart is about to burst right out of his chest.

He pushes himself up to sit beside her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Behati grins. “Right back at ya, babe.”

She kisses him chastely on the lips, smoothing his hair down with a hand.

Adam turns, looking over his shoulder, and snorts.

Blake is conked out, laying sprawled out on his back, his hair a giant fucking curly mess, and his arm is spread out across the bed where Adam had been laying and— _oh_.

He blushes.

Behati giggles. “Wouldn’t have pegged you two for cuddlers but I could barely separate you. A girl’s bound to be jealous, y’know.” An apology is ready on his lips when she reaches out and shushes him. “I’m kidding, babe. You two are adorable—I wouldn’t have separated you even if I wanted to.”

He blushes a little more at that, squirming. “When’d you get here?” he asks, changing the subject.

She looks at him oddly. “You don’t remember?” He shakes his head and she frowns. “Well, what _do_ you remember?”

He thinks back, sifting through the haze and trying to figure out what his last coherent memory actually was; everything is fuzzy, and he remembers seeing things that weren’t actually there—monsters, creepy-looking fuckers that his stupid overactive mind managed to create in his delirium—but even those bits are messy.

Blake carrying him into the house is the last thing he remembers clearly.

He tells his wife and she makes a surprised “huh” sound, feeling his forehead with her hand. “Your fever must have been worse than Blake let on,” she says, sympathetic. “How’re you feeling now?”

“Okay, I guess,” he shrugs. “No monsters or anything.”

That earns him another confused look.

Damn. Blake must have not have told her much at all.

He slides back under the covers, tucking his head against her side. Something bumps against his elbow and he reaches down, pulling out a cell phone—Blake’s phone?

He remembers that now, holding it all night and staring at it when he’d wake up startled from a bad dream. It’s not—he doesn’t quite remember how he ended up with it, just that touching it and keeping it with him made him feel safer, somehow.

Ridiculous. He’s such a child, it’s a wonder anyone can put up with him.

Especially Blake.

He looks over at the country singer, watching him sleep, watching his chest steadily rise and fall, listens to the deep breaths coming out of him.

Adam might not remember much of the last several hours but he does know Blake was there with him for all of it.

It’s kind of alarming, trying to picture Blake taking care of him. It doesn’t fit with the friendly rivalry thing they have going on, doesn’t fit with all the shit they talk about each other and the shit they do to each other—but it makes him feel warm inside, thinking about it.

He’s kind of a needy person—okay, he’s _really_ needy, and clingy, and needs constant validation that he’s still loved by his friends because otherwise he’ll overthink and overanalyze and send himself into a tailspin—so it feels good, feels _great_ , actually, to have that confirmation that Blake cares about him.

Or, at least cares about him enough to not let his brain melt from a fever.

Same thing.

He smiles happily. Blake totally loves him. 

“He took such good care of you,” Behati tells him, a hint of pride in her voice, practically reading his thoughts. “He made sure you ate and showered and everything. He even called James and had him bring you some food.”

Adam smiles, has a vague memory of eating frozen strawberries in the kitchen.

He turns on his side, closing his eyes as she touches his face softly with her fingertips.

“You have some amazing friends, babe.”

He couldn’t agree more.

\--

They do end up leaving a few hours later, after Adam has another nap and eats a bowl of soup at their request.

As much as Blake insists that they aren’t, it kind of feels like they’re intruding on him and it’s probably better for them to get back to their own house anyways.

“You’ve done so much already,” Behati tells the country singer, chiding. “We can’t ask for anything else—besides, he’s doing better, and I think we can handle it from here.”

She gestures to Adam, who’s standing by the front door, a little sleepy but more awake than he’s been in hours. He’s still wearing Blake’s giant clothes and he looks a little bit like a kid waiting for mom and dad to stop talking so they can leave.

Blake shifts on his feet, looking back and forth between Adam and Bee. “Yeah, okay, I guess you’re right. Just—just keep me updated, okay? Let me know if he gets worse or somethin’.”

Behati smiles, standing up on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek. “You’ll be the first person I call.”

He smiles, relieved.

“ _Bee_ ,” Adam whines from the door, arms folded around himself as he pouts at them both. “Either take me home or let me go back to sleep.”

The model gives her husband a look and then waves goodbye to Blake, a bag with all the sick-food in it slung over her shoulder. “We’re going, babe, let’s go.”

Blake lets them get as far as the driveway before he remembers something, cursing and taking off after them. “Hey, wait!”

They both pause, Behati looking at him in surprise while Adam just looks slightly exasperated.

Blake stops in front of them and holds out a hand, expectant.

Adam raises an eyebrow.

“Give it back, rock star.”

Adam sighs in defeat, reaching up his sleeve to pull out Blake’s phone and dropping it in his hand. “Happy?”

“Delighted.”

Behati laughs, grabbing her husband by the arm and easing him into her car after swatting him on the head. Adam reclines the passenger seat as soon as he gets in, curling up and closing his eyes.

Blake watches as they drive off, waits until he can no longer see their car before he goes back inside.

He has a few missed texts from Miranda and he calls her just like he promised he would, sitting down on the couch as he waits for her to pick up.

 _“Hey, honey,”_ she greets after the second ring, her voice sweet as ever. _“How’d it go? Have an interesting night?”_

He chuckles. “You have no idea.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The phone thing came from a similar incident I had with my brother when he was sick. 
> 
> Let me know if you'd like to see me write more stuff! This is my first fic but I do have some other ideas floating around in my head for this fandom that I'd like to write. All comments are much appreciated! For now, I'll go hide.


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